


Petals and Thorns

by Isis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory draws on Witcher book series canon, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Minor Jaskier | Dandelion/Priscilla, Novigrad (The Witcher), Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: Ciri had thought Novigrad, with its bustling streets and crowds of people from all over the Continent, would be safe. But Astrid had recognized her in an instant.
Relationships: Astrid | Skjall's Sister/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Petals and Thorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sewn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/gifts).



> Thanks to Filigranka for her usual thoughtful beta.

The herbalist’s shop was down a short flight of stairs from the street, just where Dandelion had said it would be. Ciri pushed open the door, then stopped in the doorway, breathing in the mingled scents of flowers and roots and other ingredients. It was like a concentrated forest, pungent and sharp, and it tickled at the back of her nose, making her sneeze.

“It used to get me like that too, every time I came in,” said the woman at the counter. She was young, pretty, with dark hair mostly hidden under a bright green scarf that matched her green-patterned dress, and a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “Got used to it, aye? But I was sneezing my head off, my first two months.”

“It’s quite strong,” agreed Ciri as she closed the door and entered the shop. The violence of her sneeze had caused her hood to drop a little off the back of her head, and reflexively she tugged at it, pulling it forward to cover her hair and shadow her face.

“I’m Astrid. How might I help you?” The woman’s strong Skelliger accent made the ‘you’ sound a bit like ‘ye’, and it made Ciri smile a bit, in the shadow of her hood. Even the terrible things that had happened there last year hadn’t dimmed her affection for her childhood home. She ought to go to Skellige for a while, she thought. Maybe after she’d been on the Path for a while longer, after Nilfgaard and its ruler had forgotten her; maybe when she no longer had to look over her shoulder and dye her hair.

But she couldn’t be complacent yet, not even here. She frowned, remembering what Dandelion had told her. “I thought the herbalist here was a halfling?”

“That he is. I’m just working for him, an apprentice, like. He’s in the workroom, but I can help you if it’s simple herbs you need.” Then she cocked her head and scrutinized Ciri. “I know you, don’t I?”

Her heart clenched abruptly. _No one can know I’m alive. No one must know._ She’d thought Novigrad, with its bustling streets and crowds of people from all over the Continent, would be safe. She didn’t know this woman. “I can’t imagine –”

“I _do_ know you,” she went on, as though talking to herself. “I know your voice. Oh, and that scar on your cheek, of course.” Her face hardened, and she leaned forward on the counter. “I hope you found the person you were looking for. I hope it was worth it. I would hate for Lofoten to have been destroyed for no reason. My brother’s name taken away,” she said, her voice edged with anger, “struck from the Saga of Ancestors, for no reason.”

Ciri stared. The girl from the sauna, it had to be. Skjall’s sister. Her name had been Astrid. No wonder Ciri hadn’t recognized her; she’d been weak and injured, half-panicked with the need to get to Drowned Dead Rock and Avallac’h, and anyway, Geralt had said that none of the survivors of Lofoten had known anything of her other than that she’d gone off with Craven – with Skjall – and so…. “I thought you were dead.”

“Almost was, no thanks to you and that pack of – of whatever they were, those horrible creatures in black armor! They came riding through like a winter storm, cutting down everyone and everything! I hid under the floor-boards, but Mum...Mum...” Tears began to flow down her freckled cheeks.

Ciri felt like the worst shitheel that ever existed. Because yes, it had been worth it – she had staved off Tedd Deireádh, the White Frost and the end of the world – but how could she say that to someone who had paid a bigger price than she had? Astrid had lost her mother and her brother, and they would still be alive if Ciri hadn’t come to Lofoten. She hesitated, wondering if she should reach out to try to comfort her, or just leave the shop, when Astrid wiped her eyes and straightened, clearly getting herself under control by effort of will.

“He told me it was Ragh nar Roog,” she said. There was a challenge in her voice, as though she did not quite believe it – as though she was daring Ciri to admit that she had lied. “Was it?”

She nodded.

“So those creatures, they were an army of demons straight from Chaos.”

She nodded again.

“Well, then,” Astrid said briskly. “What is it you need?” At Ciri’s incredulous look, she sighed. “There’s nothing you can do to bring my mum back, or give my brother back his name, yeah? And I know it wasn’t you who brought those demons to our shores. Skjall said you were carried in by a fellow in a mask – you were passed out and barely breathing. It weren’t none of your own doing. And...” She shrugged. “In a way, you did me a favor. When they said I couldn’t talk to my brother, or even call him by his own name, I got on a ship, and good riddance to that old fish puddle! Got me this job here, learning herbs. When I pass my ‘prenticeship I reckon to be a traveling herbalist, see a bit of the world for myself.”

“That’s – I’m very glad for you,” said Ciri, but her tongue stumbled over the words. She remembered, now, how brash and confident Astrid had been, how she wouldn’t take no for an answer when Ciri had demurred her invitation to the sauna; how she’d boldly asked about Ciri’s tattoo, and what she thought of Skjall, and how she’d sighed in envy when Ciri had said that she spent her life traveling. It had been clear that she’d chafed at the limits of a life on a remote Skellige island. It was just a pity, thought Ciri, that it had taken the deaths of her mother and her brother, and the destruction of her village, for her to leave.

She was about to start listing the ingredients she needed, when a sudden thought struck her. Astrid had said her mother had died in the Wild Hunt’s attack, but only that her brother had been outcast, not that he’d been killed. It was later, when he’d tried to redeem himself by hunting down a werewolf, that he’d died, Geralt had told her. Was it possible that she didn’t know?

“You haven’t been back to Hindarsfjall – to Lofoten?”

“Nothing for me there. Maybe one day I’ll go back to see Skjall.”

Ciri took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she began, and before she could think too hard about it, she let it all spill out of her. How Geralt and Yennefer had found his body, ravaged by the beast he’d tried to slay; how she had gone back to Hindarsfjall and given his neglected body a proper burial, and defended him to the townspeople; how very, very grateful she was to them both for saving her life and restoring her to health, and how terribly sorry she was that things had ended the way they had.

Through it all, Astrid just looked at her, silent and unmoving. Finally she spoke, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “Thank you for – well, thank you for saying it. For letting me know. But I – I’ll just get Master Bruno to help you with your herbs, all right? I think I need to have a lie-down.” Eyes brimming again, she began to turn away, and Ciri couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“No, I’m sorry, I’ll come back another time,” she said quickly, and turning for the door, she fled as fast as she was able.

* * *

“There’s got to be other herbalists in Novigrad. Right?” She looked from Dandelion to Priscilla, and then back again.

“Well, there’s the herbalist in Hierarch Square,” said Priscilla. “He charges too much, though. And he always tries to put his hand on my rear when I’ve bought things from him. No, the halfling’s really a much better option.”

“I can’t go back to that shop! I’ve ruined that poor girl’s life enough already.”

“Of course you can, Ciri,” said Dandelion.

“Fiona,” she said sharply. “You’re to call me Fiona, remember?”

He laughed, gesturing towards the musicians who were playing a merry air, and the other patrons of the Chameleon who conversed in loud voices so as to be heard over the music. “As though anyone could overhear us in this place!”

He was right, she thought, but still, she was jumpy after having been recognized – and by a woman who’d only spent a few hours with her, and that many months past. “Please. It’s not been four months. I don’t want to awaken any suspicions.”

“All right, _Fiona_. Look, you said she was happier now – that she told you that it was as though you’d done her a favor. Likely she was only overwrought for a moment after hearing the bad news. She’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Yes, we women can get so overwrought,” said Priscilla, a dangerous note to her voice.

“It’s not like that, my love. Who wouldn’t be upset to hear that one’s brother had died? But she won’t blame the messenger. Perhaps you should bring her a small gift? As a thank-you for her help back then, in Skellige, and to get you back on a friendly footing. You could, let’s see. Perhaps you could bring her flowers.”

Priscilla scoffed. “Flowers? For an apprentice herbalist? Don’t be ridiculous. My dear, you can never go wrong with jewelry.”

“Oh, no – one can go _very_ wrong with jewelry, trust me. How about a book?” He winked at Ciri. “I could arrange for you to have a signed copy of one of my volumes of poetry at a very reasonable price.”

“I don’t think she’s the poetry type, exactly,” said Ciri hastily. She had read some of Dandelion’s poetry, and she was not going to inflict _that_ on anyone – not on anyone she liked, at least. “But a book’s a good idea.”

“There’s a bookstore on the far side of Hierarch Square,” said Priscilla. “I’m certain you can find something appropriate there.”

* * *

Ciri hesitated with her hand on the door, then resolutely pushed it open. Again the strong scents of the shop made her sneeze, but this time the voice that called out to her was a male voice. Behind the counter stood a halfling, and Astrid was nowhere in sight.

“Can I help you, miss?” he said.

“Thank you, yes. I need arenaria petals, mandrake root, bear fat, and alchemy paste, please.” As he moved from one cabinet to another, collecting the ingredients, she asked, “Your assistant, Astrid – is she around?”

“She’s working in the back.” He frowned at her as he scooped a portion of alchemy paste from a large jar into a smaller one. “You’re the one who came a few days ago, aren’t you. She said you’d brought some bad news from home.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that was me.”

“Hmm, you don’t sound like a Skelliger. Well, let me get this wrapped up for you, and I’ll fetch her for you.”

She watched him step efficiently around the shop, pulling the rest of her ingredients from shelves and jars and making a small, neat package for her. After she paid, and had the parcel in her hands, he went to a door at the back of the shop and called, “Astrid! Your friend is here again.” He looked at Ciri. “What was your name?”

She hadn’t actually told Astrid her name in Lofoten, she realized. Perhaps that was a good thing. “It’s Fiona.”

“Fiona’s here, yes, the girl with the scar.”

For a moment she wondered whether Astrid would come out from the back room, or if she’d had enough of Ciri for one lifetime. But then she emerged, her face brightening when she saw Ciri. “Oh, good, I was afraid you wouldn’t actually come back!”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

“Pish posh! Of course I do. You’re my one friend here in this big city.”

“That’s that, then,” said the halfling. “I’ll mind the counter if you’d like to go outside for a chat. But don’t you stand around gabbing for too long – there’s plenty more work for you to do!” His smile softened his words, and from Astrid’s expression as she seized Ciri’s hand and pulled her out the door, Ciri guessed that his outward gruffness masked a gentle heart.

In the tiny courtyard, Astrid turned to Ciri with a grin. “Master Bruno’s not really a slave driver!”

“I can tell. Look, I wanted to bring you a gift.” She held out the book, which she’d had wrapped in plain paper. “To say thank you, again, for saving my life.”

Astrid unwrapped it eagerly. “ _Foreign Lands._ ” She leafed through the pages. “Kaedwen. Aedern. Oh, these all sound so exotic! Zerrikania! Have you been to Zerrikania?” Ciri shook her head. “This is terrible, I’m never going to be able to pay attention to my work now. I’ll just be dreaming about going to all these places.” 

“I was hoping it would make you work harder, so you could become a traveling herbalist all the sooner.”

“I suppose!” She turned the book over in her hands. “You didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“I know. I wanted to. And – I guess I felt bad, for having to tell you what had happened.”

“Can’t put a dead fish back in the water,” she said practically. “But I want to see you again! I want you to tell me of your travels. It’s a pity there’s no sauna here. But we could go to the baths?”

“All right. I’ll be here for another few days, anyway.”

Astrid’s face fell. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving so soon.”

“I have to earn my living.” 

“Don’t we all!” said Astrid, with a glance toward the shop. “But what do you do, then?”

It probably wouldn’t hurt to tell her the truth, Ciri decided. “I’m a witcher. I don’t have the mutations, but I’ve done all the training, and I’m good with a sword. I wouldn’t mind staying here longer, but there aren’t a lot of monsters in the city – I’ve already taken all the contracts that were posted.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Seizing her hand, Astrid pulled her back into the shop. “Master Bruno, we need to hire Fiona! She’s a witcher!”

“You have a monster in your shop?” Ciri asked dubiously.

“No, not in the shop,” said Bruno. “But we need to go out to the forest near Yantra – there are some particular plants that grow very well there, and I need to replenish our stock. Be good for Astrid to learn, as well. I’d been planning to put up a notice for a bodyguard, but perhaps you’ll take it on?”

“Please say you will!” Astrid begged. “We can go tomorrow and make a picnic of it!”

She considered. She vaguely knew that the village of Yantra was somewhere to the west; if there was a forest, there was most likely a stream or a pond, which might harbor drowners or water hags. Ghouls tended to prowl the forests as well, and of course there were always bandits. “How much are you offering?”

Bruno named a sum, and she countered with another. Finally they agreed on thirty crowns in advance, plus lunch, which Astrid promised to make for them all, and Ciri could harvest the herbs alongside them for herself, as well as the parts from any monsters she slew. It was not a particularly big contract, but there was a chance that nothing would bother them at all, and of course after having been in Novigrad for several weeks, the prospect of a day in the country was appealing.

* * *

The walk to Yantra took them a little under an hour and was completely unremarkable. No bandits, no ghouls, no giant spiders – not that Ciri minded. Bruno’s lecture on the plants they’d be collecting, and their purposes, was actually quite interesting, and he seemed happy to answer her questions as well as Astrid’s.

“Oh, a nice patch of nettle,” he remarked as they turned north on the spur road that led toward the village. “We’ll have to stop here on the way back and collect it. What are some uses for nettle, Astrid?”

“The leaves can be made into a cream for joint pain and insect bites, or a tea for allergies.”

“Good. What about the root?”

“The roots, hmm. I don’t know.”

“I do,” said Ciri, grinning. “You can brew a decoction with them for men who have trouble pissing.”

Astrid went wide-eyed. “Ach, you’re having me on!” 

“No, she’s right,” said Bruno. “You know your herbs.”

“My father taught me a lot.”

“He was an herbalist?”

Ciri hesitated. “He knew a lot about plants and things like that.”

Bruno nodded, accepting her evasion. “You can also brew nettle with rosemary and sage for a good light-brown hair dye. Easier to use than the walnut-shell dye you’re using now, and I wager it’ll look more natural.”

Dismayed, she put a hand to her hair. “You can tell?”

“It’s my profession, miss witcher, of course I can tell. I think you’ve done a fine job, but it’s a bit dark for your coloring, and walnut shells stain the skin.”

“Why did you color your hair, anyway?” asked Astrid. “Your pale hair was so pretty!”

“Just felt like a change,” she lied. Another lie, to add to her name – well, that wasn’t completely a lie, but she still felt a twinge of guilt every time Astrid called her ‘Fiona.’ Astrid had helped to save her life, and lost her family and her home because of her, and – and she _liked_ Astrid. She wanted to be honest with her. But she had to be vigilant. Emhyr had been furious at the news of her supposed death, Geralt had told her, and he had not yet given up his dreams of expanding the Nilfgaardian Empire. He could have spies anywhere, even here.

When the first huts on the outskirts of Yantra came into sight, they turned onto a smaller road, and when that split into two yet-smaller paths, Bruno led them straight ahead and into the woods. Ciri let the others go ahead as they foraged for their ingredients, keeping half an ear on Bruno’s instructions to Astrid, and the other half on the sounds of the forest around them. When they went through a small clearing she picked some bison grass, and put it in her bag; at the marshy shore of a lake she picked beggartick blossoms alongside Astrid. 

“Bend this way,” said Astrid, and when she did, Astrid poked one of the red flowers into her hair. “There, you’re a picture now.”

“A poisonous one,” warned Bruno. “Wash your hands before we eat.”

“What do you use it for, then?” asked Ciri, curious. It was an ingredient in some of the blade oil recipes Geralt had taught her, but not in any of the potions she made. The mutated witchers could stomach poisonous potions, but she only made the least toxic recipes for her own use.

“Rat poison,” said Astrid. “Which I’m looking forward to making, because you wouldn’t believe the size of the vermin in my rooms.” 

“It can also be used to dye leather,” said Bruno. “The armorer in Hierarch Square buys it from me in quantity. And a very small amount of the extract is an effective painkiller, but one has to know how to brew it for a therapeutic, rather than a fatal dose.”

“Will I be learning that one?” asked Astrid.

“After you’ve mastered Redanian herbal,” said Bruno.

She made a face. “Well, _that_ won’t be anytime soon.”

“Just need some practice, my girl. Now, can you tell me what that plant is, there?”

They skirted the shoreline, talking and plucking plants from the moist, swampy earth. Ciri trailed behind, alert for drowners and water hags, but nothing disturbed the smooth surface of the water. At the far end of the lake, where another trail came in from the woods, they washed their hands and then sat on a jumble of rocks near the water’s edge to eat their lunch of cheese and crusty bread. Ciri produced a bottle of lager she’d cadged from Dandelion that morning, and the three of them shared it around and talked of inconsequential things. After lunch, they set off down the path, which Bruno said would curve around and bring them back toward Yantra, and picked more herbs from the sun-dappled forest.

“I hope you’re not disappointed we didn’t find you any monsters to fight,” said Astrid as she carefully stripped the leaves from a wild geranium. Bruno was ahead of them, bent over and sniffing at something at the base of a large tree. 

“Don’t say that,” Ciri warned. “It’s as good as summoning them! But I don’t mind at all. It’s a lovely day and I like being with you.”

Astrid placed the geranium leaves into a small cloth bag, then slipped her hand into Ciri’s. “I like being with you as well.”

Ciri felt her pulse speed up, or maybe it was Astrid’s pulse she was sensing through her fingers. “Weren’t you trying to fix me up with your brother, back in Lofoten?” 

“Ach, no. I was only asking if you felt something for him because he had first rights, being the first to meet you. But then you said you liked women, so I thought I might have a chance.”

“Astrid, come here and see if you can identify this,” Bruno called back to them, and Astrid gave her hand a squeeze before going over to her teacher. Ciri leaned against another tree and watched them both, their heads bent over some sort of fungus. She hadn’t been thinking of romantic entanglements when she’d been in Lofoten – she hadn’t been thinking of anything at all, really, other than finding Avallac’h and getting out of there. And then Geralt had awoken her from her supernal sleep, and she’d gone with him back to Kaer Morhen, and all her thoughts had been of defending her old home and defeating the Wild Hunt.

Afterward, she had savored her time with Geralt as he taught her his old monster-killing tricks and showed her to brew potions and blade oils. She’d fought alongside him with the beautiful silver sword he’d had made for her, and when he’d clapped her on the back and told her she was a fine witcher she’d felt nothing but pride. After they’d parted company she went to see him every month, teleporting to Corvo Bianco, and those visits warmed her soul. It was always a delight to see him puttering about the vineyard, and his pride in her was evident when she recounted her exploits since the last time they’d seen each other. It was good to be around family, people you loved, who you knew loved you back. That was one reason she was staying at the Chameleon, as Dandelion was her father’s closest and oldest friend, even though he sometimes wore on her nerves.

She also had a few friends closer to her age in Novigrad, so it was definitely more social than being on the road; there was Lyna, and Bea, and Carlo. But maybe it would be nice, she thought, to have another kind of friend. It had been a long time since she’d had a romantic partner. If Astrid was interested….

“Hold there,” said a pleasant male voice. 

Ciri’s head snapped up. She should have been paying more attention to the forest around them, not gazing at Astrid’s pretty curves and daydreaming. If it had been wolves or necrophages, who were not polite enough to introduce themselves before attacking, they’d have been in serious trouble. 

A dark-haired young man in a leather jerkin strode down the path toward them, a smile on his face. Bruno and Astrid had already got to their feet and were looking in his direction. Ciri sniffed the air and tried to sharpen her senses. The birds had stopped singing, a clear indication that there were people about. Yes, she could hear footsteps to their left, deeper in the woods. Two men, she thought. They were trying to be quiet, but the crinkle of dead leaves and twigs gave them away. Quickly she moved closer to the others. They both glanced at her as she approached, and she gave a quick shake of her head, and motioned at them to stay put. Hopefully that would alert them that things were not as benign as they looked.

“Keep your distance,” called Ciri. “What do you want?”

“Why, only the coin you have on you. And perhaps whatever’s in those bags. Now, now, don’t argue. My friends have arrows trained on you. We don’t want to have to hurt you.”

“Fiona!” squeaked Astrid. Bruno only glowered. 

Ciri raised her chin. “We don’t want to get hurt, either. Let me get my friends’ coin, and I’ll bring it to you.” She moved closer to the others and bent toward them, whispering, “When I signal, drop to the ground. Don’t run,” and then, louder, “Now!”

Bruno and Astrid threw themselves to the ground, and Ciri _blinked_ , teleporting herself directly behind the bandit as an arrow flew through the space where she’d been. She had her steel sword in her hand as her feet touched the path again, and with one swing she severed his head from his body. 

The arrow had come from the left of the path, and a little ways back toward the lake, where she’d heard one set of footsteps. She teleported in that direction and spun in a circle, looking for the archer. A flash of blue cloth, disappearing behind a tree trunk, caught her eye, and she blinked to the far side of the tree and found herself looking into the surprised face of the bandit’s confederate. He threw down his bow and snatched up a dagger from a sheath at his waist, but she was close enough to simply thrust her sword into his gut, and his wild slash came nowhere near her. She plucked the dagger from his hand as he groaned in pain, then drew it across his throat.

The forest underbrush crackled behind her, and she whirled. Ten paces away a third bandit stood wide-eyed, a longsword in his shaking hand. Reaching back without even looking, she pulled her own sword from the archer’s lifeless body and took a step toward the bandit.

Who yelled, “Fuck this!” dropped his sword, and ran in the opposite direction.

Ciri sighed. Men who preyed on travelers were scum and deserved to die. But she didn’t particularly enjoy killing humans, and anyway, if she went chasing after him, she’d leave Astrid and Bruno vulnerable, and there might be more bandits in the group that had accosted them, lying in wait, hidden. It had been a long time since she’d run with the Rats, but she had not forgotten their old tricks. Instead she picked up the sword and collected the archer’s weapons, along with a silver ring from his finger, then slipped back through the forest, walking silently and swiftly, looking and listening to the forest around her. The birds began to sing again. When she got back to the path, Bruno was still lying flat, his hands covering his head, but Astrid had propped herself on her elbows and was peering into the forest.

“It’s all right now,” she called to them. “They’re gone.”

The mood was far more subdued as they returned to Novigrad. Bruno’s voice, as he instructed Astrid, was quieter, and Astrid looked nervously around as she collected her plants. She tried to talk with Ciri a few times, but Ciri, feeling embarrassed and angry at having been surprised by the bandits, waved her off. “It’s my fault they got so close,” she said by way of apology. “I should have been paying closer attention to our surroundings. I won’t let anyone get the drop on us again.”

But they saw no bandits and no monsters, only a few farmers and their families on the road, and a merchant with a load of wine-casks bound for the docks who passed them as they crossed the river and entered at the Oxenfurt Gate. As they drew near the Chameleon, Ciri put her hand on Astrid’s arm. “This is where I’m staying. I’m rather tired. I think I’ll head in now.”

Astrid looked disappointed, but she nodded. “Come with me to the baths tomorrow after I finish work?”

“All right.”

“Thank you for the escort,” said Bruno. “We owe you our lives.”

“I don’t think they would have killed you. Just taken your money.”

“Still, thank you,” said Bruno again, and, tipping his hat toward her, he and Astrid turned back down Glory Lane and toward his shop.

* * *

“Bandits!” said Priscilla, her eyes sparkling. “How exciting! I’m so glad nobody was hurt.”

“Except the bandits.”

“Good,” said Dandelion. “I have no objection to you hurting bandits. They’re bad for business. After all, if a visitor to Novigrad has his money stolen on the road, he can’t spend it here.”

“Maybe the bandit’s only taken his money so he can afford a drink and a show,” teased Ciri.

“If he’s got the coin, we won’t turn him away!”

Priscilla sniffed. “As if a common bandit would appreciate our performances.”

Ciri and Dandelion laughed, and the conversation went on to other things; and then Ciri finished her ale and stew and excused herself, and went to her room. But the next morning, when she went down into the tavern, she was surprised to see Dandelion amid the maids cleaning the tables and righting the chairs.

“You’re up early,” she remarked, swinging herself onto the bench opposite him. He had his arm around one of the maids, which wasn’t unusual, but it was clearly a comforting rather than a casually romantic gesture. Her eyes were red and she clutched a mug of some steaming beverage. “What’s wrong?”

“Mayra found a body in the alley this morning. It’s one of the men who was drinking here late last night.”

“Too much to drink?”

Dandelion shook his head grimly. “Too much steel in his back. Though he did drink quite a lot, too.”

“You think he got into a fight?”

“He didn’t while he was in here. Just drank, talked, listened to the music. Friedrich said he was complaining to anyone who’d listen about a woman who’d ruined his life. Now he has no life to ruin.” Mayra sniffled into her mug, and he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Enough of that. What do you have there?”

Ciri patted the bundle at her side. “The weapons I took from the bandits. I’ll see what Hattori will give me for them.”

“Well, there’s one more shortsword you can take,” said Dandelion dryly. “I don’t think the body’s been hauled off yet.”

The body had not, in fact, been hauled off yet. It still lay in the alley next to the Chameleon, and though its shoes had been taken by some enterprising scavenger, the hilt of a sword still jutted from its back. Ciri stepped on the dead man’s body to hold it in place while she pulled the sword out, then wiped the congealed blood from it with a corner of his shirt. 

Then she frowned. The shirt looked vaguely familiar. She wrapped the shortsword with the others in her bundle, then bent again and rolled the body over.

It was the third bandit.

* * *

Astrid looked around the main room of the Chameleon appreciatively. “Ooh, you’re staying here? I’ve heard they’ve got wonderful music.”

“I’ll buy you dinner and a pint after we soak,” said Ciri. “Lyna is singing for the dinner crowd tonight. She’s only our age, but she’s really good. Come on, let’s head out before anyone takes us for barmaids.”

They walked across the footbridge and headed for the Gildorf district. Astrid said, “I’ve started reading the book you gave me. Kaedwen sounds a bit like Skellige, with all those mountains – except with no sea, of course.” There was a bit of wistfulness in her voice, and Ciri wondered if for all her complaints about “the old fish puddle” she missed her former home.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Cold, but beautiful. I spent quite a bit of my childhood there. I don’t think it looks much like Skellige, though.”

“Well, you’ll have to take me there and show me around. And I want to go to Vergen – that’s in Aedirn. It was carved by dwarves right out of the rock!”

“My father’s been there. He told me about those houses in the rock – it does sound like an interesting place.”

“Good, then we’ll go there, too! Maybe we could go all the way south to Nilfgaard.”

A cold spike of unease trickled down Ciri’s spine. Carefully she asked, “Why would you want to go to Nilfgaard?”

“No reason. Only that it’s the most powerful empire in the world. Did you know that the Nilfgaardians wear only black and silver clothing? I’d hate to not be able to wear colors,” she said, moving a hand across her headscarf, which today was a pale lavender flecked with yellow. 

Don’t be silly, Ciri told herself. Astrid couldn’t possibly be a Nilfgaardian spy. “Well, if you want to go to Nilfgaard you can go without me.” Her voice came out a bit stilted, but she didn’t care. 

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Astrid said, tucking her hand into Ciri’s. “I’ve only just found you again! Oh, that reminds me. Someone came into the shop today looking for you.”

Ciri stopped, right there on the street. The cold trickle of unease had become a torrent. “What do you mean, looking for me?”

“Oh, he didn’t ask for you by name. He came in for some celandine, but then he asked if I knew of any witchers around – he said he thought the house he’d just bought might be haunted.”

Celandine, she thought. _Herba zireael_ – the swallow’s herb, named for the same bird she was named for. That seemed rather too neat to be a coincidence. “Did you tell him about me? About where he could find me?”

“I thought you’d be pleased to have some more business,” said Astrid tartly. She began walking again toward the bathhouse, tugging Ciri along with her. “Anyway, I’m not so moon-brained as to tell a strange man your address. I told him I’d be seeing you this evening, and he said to tell you that if you want a job de-haunting his house, you can find him at the Seven Cats.”

“That’s a rather shady tavern.”

Astrid shrugged. “Guess he likes cats better than ghosts.”

At the bathhouse Astrid paid for a private room, telling Ciri it was her treat – “and after all, you said you’d take me out for dinner after,” she added. “Maybe it’s an odd first date, but it’s not as though we haven’t each seen each other in nothing but skin!”

They followed the attendant past the public pools and through the vaulted passages to the smaller private pools. Ciri looked around appreciatively at the decorative stonework on the columns, the patterned mosaics covering the floors; it was truly a lovely building. It was a good thing, she thought, that Geralt had killed the former owner of this business, Sigismund Dijkstra, for with his training in spycraft he would surely have recognized her. As it was, the place was now owned by her friend Dudu, who probably would have recognized her as well, but who spent his time behind an office desk, not here at the bathhouse. At least, she thought he did; none of the attendants or other workers there looked familiar, but as Dudu was a doppler, that didn’t mean anything. And if by chance he was here, he certainly wouldn’t betray her.

“How about some wine?” she asked the attendant impulsively. “I’ll pay for it.” When the attendant had gone to fetch it for them, she told Astrid she’d made a nice sum selling the arms she’d gotten off the bandits’ bodies, though she didn’t mention the one who’d been killed in the alley. 

“Seems a chancy way to make your coin, being a witcher.”

“It’s what I know how to do.” She pulled off her boots, unbuckled her belt and pulled off her trousers, folding them all into a neat pile of leather, as Astrid stepped out of her dress. As she bent to fold her clothes, Ciri saw a small tattoo on her back, just above her tailbone: it was a tiny rose, similar to the one she herself had on her thigh, and she remembered Astrid admiring it in the sauna in Lofoten. “So you got a tattoo after, all.”

Astrid grinned. “Almost the first thing I did when I came to the city! I told you, I wanted one right above my rear, and that’s what I did. ‘Course, I was sober when I got it done. Probably a mistake – it hurt like I’d been stabbed with a fishhook!”

Ciri nodded. She had told Astrid the tattoo was a souvenir of a drunken night; that had been a lie, of course, but she hadn’t wanted to talk of Mistle then, and now she certainly didn’t want to discuss her long-dead girlfriend with the woman she was on the edge of having a romance with. _So many lies_. “It suits you,” she said. 

“It does, doesn’t it! Especially now that I’m learning herbs and flowers, I think I like roses even more. They’re romantic, but they’re also useful, and if you’re careless you’ll end up bloody.”

“Petals and thorns,” said Ciri. 

There was a knock at the door and she wrapped a towel around her waist before answering it; she came back with a small wooden tray bearing a stoneware jug and two small stoneware cups. The cups were finely crafted and had no handles, but fit nicely into the palm. She poured a measure of the wine into each cup, handed one to Astrid, who had already submerged herself to her neck, then pulled off her blouse, removed her towel, and stepped into the steaming water.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, feeling the heat soak into her muscles. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms. 

“Not as nice as a sauna, but well enough!” Astrid took a sip of her wine and relaxed against the side of the bath. “My arms are aching from pounding petals and grinding roots. I’ve been dreaming of this all day!”

Ciri sipped her wine as well. It was thin and a little too sweet, but the alcohol burn felt lovely going down her throat, warming her insides as the hot water warmed her skin. “Mmm. You know what _I’ve_ been dreaming of all day?” She met Astrid’s eyes across the rim of her cup. Astrid put her own cup down, and smiled.

Astrid’s lips were soft and they tasted of wine. Ciri ran her fingers down her shoulders and back, warm skin under warm water, then slid one hand around to cup the generous curve of her bottom and pull her closer. She was as slippery as an eel – they both were, in the floral oil-scented water of the baths – and Ciri’s hands slid lightly over her skin. The heat of Astrid’s breasts pressed against her own made her heart beat faster. A curl of Astrid’s hair tickled the sensitive skin of her neck, and she shivered; it was like being hot and cold at the same time, somehow, so much sensation that her body didn’t know what to do with it all.

Astrid kissed with enthusiasm, as she did everything, it seemed; her mouth, not content with Ciri’s lips, roamed to her chin, her neck, her ear. Her sharp teeth tugged at Ciri’s earlobe, then grazed across her jawline, warm lips and warm breath tracing a path across Ciri’s flushed skin. Her tongue flicked out and tasted the scar that crossed her left cheek. “How’d you get this, Fiona?” she murmured.

“Long story,” said Ciri. It felt wrong, hearing her false name in such intimate circumstances. She turned Astrid’s head so she could capture her mouth again. When they were kissing, they weren’t talking, at least; and they kissed for a very long time. 

“Well, what do we have here,” said a grating male voice. Swiftly Ciri released Astrid and turned her head. A man stood at the edge of the pool; he was dressed in shabby dark clothes and had nondescript light brown hair and the scruffy beginnings of a beard, but his eyes were sharp and alert. 

Her eyes flickered to her sword where it rested on top of her clothes.

“I don’t think so,” he said softly. She blinked to the pile of clothes and reached to grab her sword, but he’d covered the short distance in a few long strides; grabbing her arms roughly, he wrenched them behind her back. She felt the coolness of metal against her wrists, and then a blinding pain in her hands and arms that quickly spread through her body. 

“Dimeritium,” he said, but she had already figured that out. The pain was brutal and all-consuming, and even though her abilities sprang from the power of her elder blood rather than from her magic, it kept her from concentrating – and if she couldn’t concentrate, she couldn’t teleport. “I was with the Nilfgaardian force at Undvik. I was going to ascertain your identity by questioning you, but that little trick of yours confirmed it for me, Fiona. Or should I say – Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon? Yes, I thought so.”

She heard an intake of breath from the direction of the pool, and dared a glance from beneath her eyelashes. Astrid had pushed herself to the end of the pool farthest from them, and had sunk below the water so only her head was exposed. Her wary eyes were on Ciri.

A hand carded roughly through her hair. “Dyed, I suppose. By the time we get to Nilfgaard you should be showing enough roots that the emperor’s toadies will tell him he should grant me an audience. Won’t he be surprised to find you alive. I’m sure there’ll be a handsome reward.” He laughed unpleasantly. “All right, up with you,” he said, yanking her to her feet so hard that she stumbled and almost vomited. “A pity I can’t stay and enjoy this lovely place.”

“I don’t see why not,” said Astrid. Ciri turned her head to see that she’d pushed herself up out of the water and was now sitting, naked, on the edge of the pool. She gave Ciri an unreadable glance, then returned her eyes to the man. “You’ve done me a favor, haven’t you? Shown me all the lies she was telling me – her name, her hair, I don’t know what else!”

“Consider it fair payment for having led me here.”

“But you said you wanted to enjoy it! And we’ve got so much wine left, I won’t make it back to my rooms if I drink it all by myself.” Astrid unfolded herself from the edge of the pool and rose to her feet. She moved liquidly, pushing out her chest to emphasize her breasts, displaying her rounded hips and the rose tattoo on her back as she bent to pick up the wine jug and cups. “Stay and have a drink with me first?” She poured a bit of wine into one cup, took a sip, then stopped. “You probably don’t want to drink from _her_ cup. Let me get a clean one for you.”

“All right, girl,” he said, sounding amused. She picked up her towel, where it was sitting still folded next to her dress, and wrapped it around herself, then headed for the door.

“Guess your girlfriend isn’t as in love with you as you thought, Princess Cirilla,” he said mockingly. “Oh, you looked quite the lovebirds, swanning through the streets hand-in-hand.”

“The bandit,” wheezed Ciri.

“What?”

“The bandit.” She could only manage short sentences between waves of nausea and pain. The arrogant bastard just stood there looking smug. “You killed him, didn’t you. Outside the Chameleon.”

He shrugged. “Bought him a few drinks first. And he obligingly told me about a lady witcher who teleported from one of his companions to the next, and killed them all. You made quite an impression.”

The door opened, and Astrid came in with another of the small stoneware cups. The man pushed Ciri toward the wall, and she crumpled to the floor. She barely noticed her head striking the wall, everything hurt so much. Her eyes filmed with tears she refused to let fall. It made the scene in front of her look soft and blurry; the man pulling a giggling Astrid toward himself, her towel falling from her body. She wound her arms around him as he kissed her.

“Stop that, I’ll drop the cup and it will break, and they’ll make me pay for another. Let’s have some wine first,” said Astrid, pulling away and going to where the jug sat on the edge of the pool. She filled first his cup, then hers, and brought them both over to him. “She bought it, so it’s probably terribly cheap, but it tastes good to me,” she said, putting a cup in his hand. She took a long drink from her cup and licked her lips. “Have some wine, then take off your clothes and we’ll have a nice soak.”

“That’s not all I’m going to have,” he said, leering at her, and he drained his cup. He put it down and started unbuttoning his shirt as Astrid moved back toward the jug and refilled hers. “Yeah, that’s crap wine, nothing like – ugh.” 

“You don’t think it’s good? I like it.”

The man’s face started to turn red. His hand fell away from the buttons of his shirt. “You li’l bitch,” he slurred. He started toward Astrid, then fell to his knees. “You – fuck,” he said, hauling himself upright with difficulty. “’m gonna kill –”

He lunged toward Astrid, and fell face down into the pool. 

“It probably tastes better without the rat poison,” said Astrid thoughtfully.

* * *

“Here you are,” said Dandelion, placing chicken pies and mugs of lager in front of them. He’d seen Ciri’s pale face and stumbling gait when they had come in, and had bustled over immediately to fuss over them, then had personally brought the food over to their table in the corner. He watched as Astrid took a bite of the pie, smiling as she practically swooned with pleasure. “The chef uses Redanian lager in the recipe,” he told her. “Speaking of which, let me know if you want another glass. It’s on the house. Anything for the girl who saved our Ciri.”

‘Our Ciri’ glared at him until he shrugged, patted Astrid on the shoulder, and went back to mingling with the other patrons. She slumped back down in her seat, leaning on the table with her elbows and putting her head in her hands. “Sorry about Dandelion. He’s best in small doses.”

“That’s all right, as long as he gives me free food and drink!” She took another bite of her chicken pie and washed it down with a long drink of her lager. “So your name is really Cirilla Fiona etcetera etcetera?” 

“Ciri, please. My friends call me Ciri.” Hopefully Astrid was still her friend. It had been a silent and uncomfortable walk back to the Chameleon, especially since she was still fighting the effects of the dimeritium and had to stop twice to throw up. Astrid’s guiding hand on her arm had been firm, but impersonal. They’d stood awkwardly at the tavern steps for a few moments before Astrid had said, “Well, are we not going in for dinner?” and Ciri had nodded and led her inside.

“And are you really a princess?”

“I used to be.”

“Used to be!” Astrid scoffed. “How can you give up being a princess? If I could be lying around on a soft bed, wearin’ pretty dresses and being waited on, how fine that would be!”

“It wasn’t like that. And it wasn’t my choice.” Dandelion had put them in a private corner of the tavern, but still she lowered her voice as she told Astrid everything: how she’d escaped the fall of Cintra as a young girl, how Geralt – who had claimed her through the Law of Surprise before she was even born – had raised her as a witcher; how she’d learned that the power-hungry emperor of Nilfgaard, who had destroyed her home and family, had actually fathered her, and now wanted her as his heir.

“So you’re not a princess. You’re an empress!”

“I’m a witcher. Geralt told Emhyr I’d been killed in that last battle, and I intend to stay dead. At least in Nilfgaard’s eyes.”

“That’s why you dyed your hair.”

“I should have realized that wouldn’t be enough.” She told Astrid about the bandit she’d let escape, about how that had led to the events of the evening. Bitterly she concluded, “It’s my own fault.” 

“You were protecting me and Master Bruno. You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“Now I know. And I won’t let it happen again. I can’t allow anyone to suspect who I am.”

Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Are you going to kill me, too?”

“No! I trust you – I trust you _now_ ,” she amended. “I’m sorry I lied to you. You recognized me immediately, and all I could think was that all my precautions had been useless.”

“You have to admit that we first met under memorable circumstances,” said Astrid. She ate the last forkful of her pie, then drained her glass of lager. “Do you think there might be others here in Novigrad who’d recognize you?”

“I thought I’d be safe because it’s a big city. And there aren’t many who both know who I am, and...who I am. But I suppose if there are any Nilfgaardians in Redania, they’d be here.”

“Best you should move on, then. For safety’s sake.”

Ciri’s heart sank. So much for her incipient romance. “You’re probably right.”

“But since you trust me now,” she went on, “you should stay in touch and let me know where you are from time to time. So when I go on the road as an herbalist, I can come find you.” She grinned, and pulled a small bottle from her pocket, holding it up so Ciri could see the label, a crudely hand-drawn rat. It was empty but for a few drops of pale liquid. Putting it back in her pocket, she added, “After all, it seems even a witcher lass needs an herbalist to save her now and again.”

“Oh, I can do better than that.” Ciri found that she was beginning to smile. “You saw me teleport in the bathhouse – I can travel anywhere in an instant. I’ll come back and visit you.”

“Can you take me with you? To Kaedwen and Vergen?”

Ciri nodded. “But not to Nilfgaard.”

“Ach, I don’t want to go to Nilfgaard anyway. Are you going to eat the rest of that?” She pointed toward Ciri’s half-eaten chicken pie. Ciri pushed it across the table, then caught the barmaid’s eye and pointed to Astrid’s empty beer glass.

She watched Astrid eat and drink. Lyna stepped onto the small stage with her lute and began to play, a soft, slow ballad about an elf-girl of Dol Blathanna who yearned for a lover. Ciri sipped from her own glass and thought about her own yearnings.

Finally she said, “Since your rooms are full of rats, and you used your poison to save me, why don’t you stay here with me tonight?”

“That sounds lovely,” said Astrid. “But no more lies.”

“No more lies,” Ciri agreed. “So. I guess I should tell you that I really got my tattoo for a former lover. I didn’t want to say it in front of your mother.”

Astrid looked stricken. “And here I am with mine, reminding you.”

“No, it’s all right. She died years ago. And – I’m glad you got your tattoo. It makes me feel better about mine, like it’s not just about the past, but about the future too. If that makes sense.”

“Petals and thorns,” said Astrid. She finished her beer and stood. “So, where’s this room of yours?”

Ciri smiled, and took her by the hand, and together they walked up the stairs.


End file.
